


The Highest Form of Flattery

by thepopeisdope



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bunker Fluff, First Kiss, Human Castiel, Implied Sexual Content, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-23
Updated: 2015-07-23
Packaged: 2018-04-10 20:48:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4407158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepopeisdope/pseuds/thepopeisdope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s small changes at first: an exchange of worn, black slacks for thrift-store jeans; coffee becoming a morning staple, the amount of cream and sugar added dwindling every day. Harmless changes, mostly, but it all seems to be coming to a point.</p>
<p>Unsurprisingly, Dean is the first to notice, being as tuned-in as he is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Highest Form of Flattery

_Loosely inspired by[x ](https://mobile.twitter.com/mishacollins/status/528600965704716289)_

It’s small changes at first: an exchange of worn, black slacks for thrift-store jeans; coffee becoming a morning staple, the amount of cream and sugar added dwindling every day. Harmless changes, mostly, but it all seems to be coming to a point.

Unsurprisingly, Dean is the first to notice, being as tuned-in as he is.

“Does Cas seem… _different_ to you?” he asks Sam one afternoon in the library, only when he is confident the ex-angel in question is occupied elsewhere in the bunker.

Sam scowls, though the expression is marred by underlying sympathy for his friend. “Of course he’s _different_ , Dean. He’s human now. What did you expect? He’s fallen before, you knew what he would be like.”

Yes, Cas has fallen before, back during the apocalypse that wasn’t, and yes, Dean knew what that meant. But that also isn’t what he’s talking about—he couldn’t care less about the loss of Cas’s mojo.

He decides to try a new approach.

“Sammy, you know Cas as well as I do.” Sam looks like he’s about to protest, so Dean rushes to continue. “My point is, he isn’t acting like _himself_. Have you seen the latest addition to his wardrobe?”

“What, the leather jacket? He seems to like it. It was a good find.”

“ _Sam_.” Dean scrubs a hand over his face. “It’s not _just_ the leather jacket. It’s the _jacket_ , the _flannels_ , the sudden penchant for _whiskey_ and _cheap-as-hell beer_ , the way he _covets_ the _handgun_ I gave him! Hell, it’s the way he talks about that damn car of his! You can’t seriously tell me you don’t see this.”

Sam, for his part, looks utterly lost. He slowly closes the lid on his laptop (which he hadn’t been looking at anyway) and leans back in his chair, giving Dean his full attention. It’s only when Dean starts to squirm under the scrutiny that he takes pity on him.

“I think you might be projecting a bit, here.”

“Dammit Sam, I’m not projecting!” Dean shouts in return. He takes a deep breath through his nose in an attempt to calm down. Shouting will only get Cas’s attention, and this is the last conversation he needs the angel to walk in on. “He’s turning into me and you know it!”

Sam blinks. “Huh. I guess he kind of his.”

“That’s all you have to say.”

“Well, imitation is the highest form of flattery, you know.”

“Fuck off, Sam.”

Sam sighs, and all traces of humor drain away. “Honestly Dean, you might want to talk to him. If it’s as bad as you think it is, he would probably benefit from talking it out.” His eyes soften when he adds, “He is new to all this, after all.”

And isn’t that the kicker. It’s not like Dean is any position to be angry with Cas. Even if he is doing this intentionally, it wouldn’t be a stretch to try and say he doesn’t know any better.

“Alright, fine.” Dean sighs and turns to walk out of the library, ignoring Sam’s sound of surprise behind him.

“That’s it? I don’t have to force you into this?” He hardly believes his own eyes.

“Don’t be a bitch, Sam,” Dean calls over his shoulder. Then, he turns the corner and disappears from sight.

At the table, Sam processes the last few minutes and cannot help but smirk.

“Those fucking idiots.”

~

A sliver of light shines under Cas’s bedroom door, but when Dean knocks, there is no reply.

Part of him points out that this would be the perfect excuse to walk away and continue pretending to be oblivious to the matter. It’s not _that_ bad, right?

Except that it is.

He steels himself and knocks again, more forcefully. Sam would never let him live it down if he chickened out now.

This time the door opens, swinging marginally inward to reveal one bright blue eye and half a head of bed-mussed brown hair. Cas’s single eye squints at him for a moment before the door is pulled open the rest of the way.

Once the door is completely open, Dean allows himself to look Cas over, as he always does when they interact—just to see how he’s doing, of course. Traumatic events and all that.

But all of the noble justifications in the world wouldn’t stop Dean from noticing how well Cas’s jeans fit, or how his—previously Dean’s—AC/DC shirt hangs from his shoulders. He looks _good_.

Dean’s mouth goes dry.

“Is there something you needed, Dean?” Cas says, pulling Dean from his thoughts.

“Can we talk?”

Cas steps back to admit him into the room. Inside, Dean sees a Walkman on the table by the bed— _his_ Walkman—and understands why it took so long for Cas to open the door.

Conveniently, it gives him a perfect segue.

“Hey,” he says with feigned nonchalance, “You found my Walkman.”

He sees Cas nod out of the corner of his eye, and when he turns to face him fully, his eyes lock instantly on the twitching of his hands. It’s one of his worst tells.

“Yes,” Cas says, averting his gaze from Dean’s. “There’s a Led Zeppelin tape in it, and I’m quite enjoying it.”

“Right,” Dean says slowly. “What’s your favorite song so far?”

Cas flinches, near infinitesimally.

Dean sighs. He sits on the bed, rubbing awkwardly at the back of his neck. “Cas, you don’t have to lie to me.”

Cas’s eyes flash up, panic clear in their blue depths. “I’m not lying,” he blurts, too quickly to be believable. From the look in his eyes, Cas knows this just as well as Dean does.

Dean can’t help but smile. “Cas, man, just tell me. Do you actually like Led Zeppelin? It doesn’t matter to me if you do or not.”

Apparently this is the right thing to say because Cas’s shoulders slump, and he (cautiously) sits down next to Dean on the bed. “I hate Led Zeppelin.”

“Okay. How do you feel about whiskey?”

Cas looks up at him sharply. He studies Dean’s expression—carefully arranged to appear at-ease—for a long minute before answering, seemingly satisfied with whatever he found. “It’s unpleasant and burns my throat.”

“Del Sol?”

“I like Sam’s beer better.”

“How do you like your coffee?”

“Extra cream and a pinch of sugar.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay.”

While Dean’s smile had only grown wider with each answer, Cas’s face twisted more and more with confusion. Dean waits patiently for him to gather his thoughts—he feels it’s the least he can do right now.

Finally, Cas schools his features and says, “You noticed.”

Dean shrugs. “It would have been kind of hard not to.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t ask you to be.”

Cas frowns.

“Why did this start?” Dean asks lightly. He leans forward and rests a hand on Cas’s knee.

Cas stares at that hand for far longer than he should. He doesn’t answer.

“Cas.” Blue eyes meet green. “Why?”

Cas gives him that trademark, soul-searching stare, the force behind it just as potent from a human as it had been from an angel of the Lord.

When still no answer comes, Dean takes initiative, and does what could turn out to be the best or the worst thing he’s ever done.

He leans forward and captures Castiel’s lips with his own.

Dean keeps his eyes open, carefully watching Cas for a reaction. Cas’s eyes go almost comically wide at the first touch, but as soon as Dean presses in a little more, moves his lips just so, Cas’s eyes slide closed and he practically melts into the movement, kissing back with all he has. Cas’s fingers latch onto the front of Dean’s shirt and Dean’s fingers thread into the hair at the nape of Cas’s neck and everything is _perfect_.

When they eventually pull away to breathe, they rest their foreheads together and soak in the sensations.

“I dislike most of your music,” Cas says without preamble, close enough for Dean to feel the words against his lips. “I speak highly of the Lincoln, but I still prefer the Impala.”

Dean scratches his fingers through Cas’s hair, enjoying the quiet moan it elicits. “Okay.”

Cas continues. “I think wearing as many layers as you do is ridiculous. Though I understand the practicality of a gun, I miss fighting with my blade. Black coffee is disgusting, and cream and sugar can only do so much. I prefer tea.”

“Yeah, okay,” Dean laughs. Another thought occurs to him. “What about the leather jacket?”

Cas smiles sheepishly. “I like the trench coat, but I find it difficult to navigate in at times. The leather jacket was a better alternative, both practically and aesthetically.”

“It’s pretty goddamn sexy, I’ll give you that.”

“You aren’t… mad?” Cas asks hesitantly. The vulnerability in his eyes is enough to make Dean’s heart ache. “About any of it?”

Dean decides to make another bold move.

“Nothing you ever do could make me love you any less.”

~

They don’t emerge from Cas’s room for several hours, and when they do, it is no longer _Cas’s room_.

His few possessions are quick to move into Dean’s room, which is now _their room_.

They find a note from Sam taped onto Dean’s door:

_Went to town for the night._

_Congrats on the sex._

_Took you long enough._

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on tumblr!  
> [ http://thursdays-fallen-angel.tumblr.com ](http://thursdays-fallen-angel.tumblr.com)
> 
> Have a prompt you want to see? Message me!


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